Sue Mott

The Women's Institute is a broad church. They will tolerate lectures on all the enemies of mankind, from Stalin to Japanese knotweed. But if there is a subject guaranteed to provoke the mass sucking of teeth and grumbles of dissent, it is that of the anti-hero, Andy Murray.

Never mind that the tennis player has become the first British man to reach the final of Wimbledon since 1938 - that pales into insignificance beside the fact that, unshaven, his fluffy ginger wisps look unkempt.

Andy Murray ... has a mixed relationship with the British public. Photo: Getty Images

He also stands accused of other misdemeanours, including being "anti-English", "boorish", "hypochondrial" and "rude". To which we can now add hitting that nice Jo-Wilfried Tsonga in a rather painful region when he had the whole court to aim at in Friday evening's semi-final.

It is a curious fact that, for all those bouncing on Henman Hill in celebration of his historic breakthrough, to many more he remains an irredeemable pantomime villain. The ironic shouts of "Come on, Tim!" still ring out in memory of Tim Henman, all short-back-and-sides but with no chance of actually winning.

It has been like this ever since 2006, when Murray was thin, immature and stitched up. At the age of 19, he was embroiled in an innocent pre-Wimbledon interview alongside Henman that included a mention of England's football team having qualified for the World Cup.

Murray, being Scottish, was teased that his team weren't there at all. With tape-recorders rolling, he made the mistake of retaliating by cracking a modest joke.

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Asked which team he was supporting, he said: "Anyone who England are playing."

From that moment, he was perceived as the embodiment of a chippy Scotsman, grouching and grumbling his way through the tournament when he was not clutching some body part in agony.

For his part, aghast at the injustice of it all, young Murray retired into stern non-revelation. And stayed there. It is interesting that every coach is immediately switched to mute when working with him, including the current incarnation, Ivan Lendl, who was pretty fond of his own voice when winning Grand Slam in the Eighties.

It has been positively astonishing to hear the voice of Miles Maclagan, Murray's previous coach, on BBC broadcasts this week, after he had maintained such strict radio silence for all the years of his employment.

Ironically, Henman was Murray's role model in that department. They were good friends, and Henman taught him the art of saying nothing in a string of polite and apparently cooperative sentences, just as footballer Alan Shearer guided Michael Owen into utter blandness before having the audacity to go into "the media" himself. That might be a shock to some. If you think Murray is boring, blame Tim.

His body language was an esperanto of gloom. Then again, they don't like fist-clenching roars of unbridled competitiveness either,

But that's not a true reflection of his character. As the writer of his autobiography in 2008, I can attest to a young man who was punctual, respectful and even bravely obeyed some elder's command to kiss older women on the cheek on their arrival. Bless him.

He was bored to death by the necessity of talking about himself and had not a single rock 'n' roll anecdote in the manner of Boris Becker, but he was authentic, kind to animals and loved his mother.

In fact, his mum, Judy, told the story in the book of the Christmas card he had once sent her in his teens that listed all the reasons he appreciated her. She cried.

"What are you doing that for, you stupid woman?" he asked, affectionately. You'd have thought the Henman fans, many of them maternal souls, would have swooned at his feet, rather than reach for the garlic.

His manners had been instilled by his lovely Presbyterian-born grandfather, Roy Erskine, a former Hibernian footballer in the pre-tattoo and spit era. Andy and his elder brother Jamie were taught to take their hats off indoors and show respect to Grandma Shirley, whose shortbread and Christmas lunches remain a family legend.

Murray isn't rude, he is preoccupied. He wants to win, with an unsettling fervour he has yet to control, in a Grand Slam final. And yet, internet messageboards have continued to register disapproval as well as staggering wonder that Britain has a finalist at last. The views are polar opposites - "hope he falls at the first fence, can't stand the man", alongside "I just love Andy and wish him every success".

For the record, Andy Murray is not anti-English. His girlfriend, Kim Sears, is English. His beloved grandma, despite the expertise in Scottish shortbread, is half-English. His main home is in Surrey, and were Bunny Austin - the last Briton to reach the men's Wimbledon singles final - still alive, he would undoubtedly have approved of his successor's spirit.

Austin was a gentleman in the literal sense. Brought up in an authoritarian era, when his French master at Repton School used to shut him in the grandfather clock at the back of the classroom for not conjugating his French verbs with sufficient thoroughness, Austin was rarely harsh or judgmental himself. He died in 2000 at the age of 94, wishing he had seen a fellow countryman emulate his feat. It has taken 74 years for that to happen.

If Murray makes no effort to win over his critics, it is probably because he knows he can't please everyone and he is rich enough not to care. There are huge swaths of the population who think he really did go out and buy a Paraguay (England's World Cup opponents) shirt in 2006, a line entirely fabricated by the tabloid newspaper that printed it.

But if he does ever lay the anti-English jibe to rest, the accusations of hypochondria continue to dog him. It's been that way ever since 2005 when, at the age of 18 and half the size he is now, he suffered from cramp when playing five sets against the big beast, David Nalbandian, who drew blood from a line judge at Queen's this year.

If Virginia Wade could call him a "drama queen" for having treatment on his back mid-match this year at the French Open, then clearly non-aficionados of the sport are likely to see it the same way. He is certainly cautious, but that's hardly surprising if your livelihood depends on your body.

He remembers with clarity the long wait for diagnosis of his bipartite patella (a knee condition that he manages to this day), and being told at 14 that he might not play again. He sat and cried, which seems reasonable. Ideally, he won't play through pain if there is a risk of long-term injury.

But perhaps his detractors are most offended by his impersonation of PG Wodehouse's famous Scotsman with a grievance who is easily distinguished from a ray of sunshine. Until Lendl's cool counsel prevailed, Murray often gave full vent to his frustrations, be they four-letter effusions or pure bloody-minded misery. His body language was an esperanto of gloom.

Then again, they don't like fist-clenching roars of unbridled competitiveness either, a trait Murray inherits from his mother, who played for a while on the women's senior tour.

Visible self-motivation seems vulgar to some in the hallowed precincts of the Centre Court, never mind that Jimmy Connors (cold-shouldered at first) and John McEnroe (ditto) could be flat-out anti-social loudmouths but eventually forgiven and adored for their charisma. Anyway, they were American.

Without being too over-analytical, it is even possible that some visceral dislike descends from all the chat about Scottish independence. There is a pronounced view in some English quarters that the Scots can take their devolved parliament, free prescriptions and whatever's left of the oil fields, and get on with it. As the figurehead of Scottishness in some eyes, Murray is copping the flak for Alex Salmond.

Prejudice is hard to shift. It is undoubtedly the case that were Murray to lift the load of a century from British tennis and defeat the near-deity that is six-times Wimbledon champion Roger Federer, he still wouldn't win over all his detractors.

They should look on the bright side. He doesn't fraternise with celebrity for the sake of it, his grandfather would have a fit if he even thought of having a tattoo, he doesn't fall out of nightclubs, he has been with his girlfriend (with one break) for seven years, he hardly drinks, works out like a fanatic, and has a well-developed, if dry, sense of humour.

If we had a footballer like that, we'd propose him to the Vatican for beatification.